


Alone

by silentsoundy



Category: VALORANT (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:13:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24668941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsoundy/pseuds/silentsoundy
Summary: Camping alone in the Russian wilds has Sova's thoughts wander.
Relationships: Omen/Sova (VALORANT)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr:  
> valorant-sova  
> valorant-reyna  
> special thanks:  
> valorant-omen  
> Discord RP: invite/4xK8Cb3

The Hunter is alone in this last night under the stars. He’s been blessed with a clear sky and only a slight chill to a cool, gentle breeze. But for all the wealth in mind, body, and soul he possesses in this very moment, he is feeling that loneliness weighing him down, heavy in his heart, his gut. He is a terribly selfless selfish creature, always demanding attention for he has unlimited attention to reciprocate with. He gives more than he takes, always, but he must always have an outlet, a target, something tangible to chase away these lonely nights and distract him from an itch he can never truly sate by himself.

His bow fires strong and true. The kill is always satisfying. Salve on unseen wounds.

His hands learn to master his partners’ bodies. The little deaths ease the ache in his heart.

When he is alone, memories, stray thoughts are all he has. They distract him, whisper to him when he lies there under that thick woolen blanket, under those stars on a cloudless night.

His hands know what to do, even as those mismatched eyes of his lid heavy, unfocused, feigning the threat of sleep that will not come.

He’s dressed down to sweats, a long-sleeved shirt, thick socks to keep him warm though the late Spring’s cool temperature barely even registers as a bother. That thick blond hair’s been tied back into a rough braid, customary for him when he goes on these week-long hunts in the Russian wilds, to keep the otherwise silky tail out of the way. Out here he has no need for keeping up well-groomed appearances. Alone, he falls to necessity rather than depend on the niceties of social structure. He enjoys keeping himself tidy, groomed, especially for certain partners. Alone he does not care enough if a bit of dirt smudges his flesh, if his hair tangles. It makes him feel more alive in some small way.

He smiles remembering the last one he was with. Unconventional, an enormous risk with a tenfold payout. Claws and threats, a touch colder than Siberia. It has taken the Hunter and the Ghost years to warm up to each other, to warm up their bodies in tandem, to read each others intents.

The Hunter likes to think the Ghost has fallen as fond of him as he has of them.

He would be right in these assumptions if only either of them had the courage to voice this.

He thinks of the Ghost, his Ghost, as his right hand slips fingers to rim the waistband of his pants, that small, fond smiling never wavering when he feels the coarse down of that trimmed happy trail of his. It’s been a long week out in these wilds, hunting, stalking, fishing, camping.

Alone.

A lifetime of hard work, a hard life has calloused fingers and a slightly rough palm press to the flat stretch of lower abdomen, feeling the muscles flex and twitch at the intimate touch. He sighs, closing his eyes and nuzzling into the shoulder of an arm raised to cushion his head, acting like a pillow. Lifting a leg, his hips cant at just the right angle, giving him room to fold fingers around a hardon that requires hardly any further encouragement.

His strokes are slow, full, from base and hair and sack, right up along his modest length, squeezing just past midway where he’s thickest, to rim and cup and twist with foreskin pulled back and head lazily swelling.

Sova’s thoughts wander as his breath hitches, holding for a few seconds before he audibly sighs against his shoulder with a slight shudder. Rougher hands have held him just like this. Gloved with blunted claws, then gloveless fingers dipped in carbon-spent velvet with sharp claws feathered over that oh so delicate skin. Always mindful, always gentle, always confident.

He can almost hear his Ghost’s voice growl pleasant approving encouragement against his ear with every stroke quickening the pace.

The Hunter allows himself to fall into these memories, drowning that void of loneliness that had threaten to consume him. It feels good to have those monstrous hands on him, to have those teeth sink into the ropy flesh between shoulder and throat, that tongue down his throat, those words promising him everything for just that one night.

He groans to choke back a sob when his body betrays him, snapping him out of these memories right at the apex of the moment when his muscles tremble and his gut tightens. Deft, strong fingers curl to grip his sack and tug hard, holding it up against the base of his cock to ride out the orgasm. Lifting his hips, he screws his features tight, tasting blood after biting his lip in a vain attempt at silencing a short cry of relief.

All he can hear now is the blood rushing against his skull, all he can smell is spent sex and stale breath. His heart is bursting, brimming, thundering in his chest.

When he opens his eyes, the stars look down on him, his vision clears after a few slow blinks.

The only breaths are his own. The only name spoken is his Ghost’s, past his own parched lips.

He is still alone.


End file.
